


you'll wait a long time

by nanasekei



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Steve Rogers, Eventual Smut, Getting Together, Human Disaster Steve Rogers, M/M, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers 4 (no movie spoilers), Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Top Tony Stark, a Four Weddings and a Funeral-inspired fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:23:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18579097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanasekei/pseuds/nanasekei
Summary: Steve and Tony share a moment during a wedding. Things escalate from there.-Alternatively: Four weddings, a funeral, and one very emotionally stunted idiot.





	you'll wait a long time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CBB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBB/gifts).



> A HUGE thanks to Ferret for betaing the fic, brainstorming with me and helping me with the summary. Thank you so so so much.
> 
> For CBB. Thank you so much for donating, and for all your incredibly sweet comments! I hope you enjoy this!

_October_

 

“I swear, I don’t know how you do it, man,” Sam whispers. He accepts the handkerchief Steve offers him, though, pressing it to his eyes. “I’d say you’re like a robot, but even the _robot_ is crying.”

Steve smiles, following his line of sight to the end of the aisle, where they can see Vision in a green tux, his eyes glimmering under the light. His smile is full of wonder as he watches Wanda walking in his direction. She looks beautiful, in a simple, white gown. When she reaches Vision, she blinks quickly to stop tears that are already there, and Steve notices his tux matches her eyes.

Just as the priest begins the ceremony, with a prayer in Sokovian, Steve’s enhanced hearing catches the sound of the saloon’s door opening. His head snaps towards it immediately, his hand reaching for his back in a reflexive motion to grab a shield that isn’t there.

There’s no cause for alarm, though. It’s just Tony, hurrying inside with rushed steps, moving through the crowd to reach his seat. He’s wearing a grey suit that’s definitely more expensive than anything Steve's ever owned, but his tie is a little crooked and his breath is uneven. He’s wearing _sunglasses_ , which is about the most Tony thing in the world, so it’s fitting that it fills Steve with both exasperation and fondness.

As he sits down, his eyes find Steve’s, and Steve can’t help but frown, because there is late, and there is walking inside in the middle of the ceremony.

Tony just grins and shrugs in response. Steve feels his mouth curling in a reluctant smile, but he makes a point to shake his head in disapproval anyway.

Nobody but him seems to notice Tony’s late arrival. The ceremony proceeds as is expected. Steve watches, patting Sam’s back when he can’t hold back more tears as Wanda and Vision say their vows. He’s mostly impressed by how much Wanda glows, figuratively and literally at some points, when magic sparks around her in what seems like an involuntary reaction. It probably is – there’s no trace of her usual tense demeanor, just unabashed, unrestrained happiness.

When they exchange rings, Steve takes a look around, taking in all the red eyes, bloated faces. Sam is right; he’s probably the only one who isn’t crying.

Then his eyes land on Tony. He has a knowing smile on his lips, watching the happy couple as if he always knew it would end this way. His sunglasses hang from his collar. He doesn’t look like he’s been crying.

Steve feels strangely comforted. For a moment, he wishes Tony would meet his eyes, but he doesn’t even know what he’d do.

When Vision and Wanda kiss, Wanda’s red sparks turn into spirals around them, and they both float, rising a few feet above the audience. The excitement is contagious. Steve finds himself grinning hard as he claps and listen to Sam and Bucky whistling by his side.

He’s still feeling a little giddy at the reception, as if Vision and Wanda’s happiness is in the air. As he watches Sam and Bucky grow more and more immersed on a trivial discussion that Steve is certain neither of them care much about, he decides to step aside—whatever is this thing going on between his two best friends, it’s a thing they haven’t decided to talk to Steve about yet, so Steve thinks it’s better to give them some privacy to deal with it when it becomes too evident.

He ends up by the desserts table, which is not a bad place to be. He entertains himself with chocolate truffles as he watches the dance floor fill with people. Wanda and Vision spin together as if oblivious to the music; Rhodey and Carol are laughing and having a contest of steps; and Natasha goes by many partners, always swift and graceful. Steve distracts himself a little, watching her. Her movements carry an incredible preciseness he usually only sees when they spar together. She dances with Thor for a while, but his moves seem to be a little too exuberant for her; Bruce steps in, but he’s too tipsy to keep up; and then, finally, Tony appears by her side and enlaces her waist, getting a smirk in response as they quickly fall into a synchronized movement.

Unlike her previous partners, Tony seems to be actually guiding the dance, instead of struggling to keep up with Natasha’s pace. The music isn’t slow but it’s far from a pop song either, so they have space to be playful, Tony spinning Natasha and then catching her and smoothly dipping her almost to the floor. Their movements are just dramatic enough to be impressive without ever verging on the edge of silliness. Steve is far from the only one watching them now.

Steve didn’t know Tony could dance, but now, it seems stupid that it never occurred to him. Of course he can.

The song changes to a slower melody Steve doesn’t recognize. Tony adjusts almost immediately, pulling Natasha closer and turning their small show into a slow, steady sway. His lips curl in a smile, his laugh lines evident in his cheeks. It’s not his wedding, but it could be, from the amount of presence he hands to every step he takes. He makes it seem so easy it could almost be rehearsed, but there’s a natural quality to his every movement, perfectly in tune with the rhythm, almost as if the music was made just for him.

Steve can’t stop staring. They’re close enough to give a wonderful shot to a paparazzi lucky enough to stumble on the scene, but it’s clear from their faces they’re having fun, whispering things to each other and grinning between steps.

As Natasha leans over to whisper something in Tony’s ear, his eyes find Steve’s, over her shoulder. Steve, taken aback, thinks Tony will just look away, but instead he stares for a moment too long, brown eyes intense even from that distance.

Steve feels himself flush, even though he doesn’t really have anything to be embarrassed about, and ends up looking away himself. He feels silly and incredibly awkward, all of a sudden. He wants to loosen his tie, which feels hot and tight around his neck, but that would be inappropriate. His eyes end up darting down, at a forgotten truffle he now remembers he is holding.

It's melted a little on his hand. Steve frowns, turning to the table to get a napkin. He cleans up his palm and takes the tip of his index finger to his mouth, sucking the leftover chocolate.

“I see the catering was a hit with you,” an unmistakable voice startles him from behind.

Steve turns. Tony seems focused on the truffles, however, picking one up and looking at it as if it intrigues him somehow. “Dark chocolate, huh? Who’d know,” he says, almost to himself, before throwing the truffle inside his mouth.

Steve watches as he chews, a little wary. He and Tony don’t speak alone very often, anymore. Not for any particular reason - there’s no lingering animosity between them. Apologies were exchanged, after Thanos; everything else had faded in the dust, among all their lost friends.

After reversing the Snap, a distance had taken place between them, coloring their every interaction. Even if he claimed to not hate him anymore, Tony wouldn’t touch him in the same casual way he touched everyone else – he couldn’t even stand too close to Steve without shifting, placing his hands in his pockets and looking uncomfortable in a way Tony Stark never did. For a while, Steve had the feeling Tony didn’t even want to look at him anymore, always avoiding his eyes when they spoke.

Steve had a lot of experience fighting with Tony. He knew what Tony looked like while angry—his eyes ablaze, his mouth throwing sharp quips meant to hurt instead of distract. He knew what Tony looked like while hurt—his eyes glimmering, his voice shaking ever so slightly as he whispered, _Did you know?_

He hadn’t, until that period after their big victory, known how Tony looked while being cold. Tony was warmth and chaos, fire and brightness. It felt foreign and wrong, the indifference in his actions and voice, and Steve’s chest felt so tight it hurt when he breathed, as if he was freezing again, from the inside this time.

Right now, he’s come to terms with it, he thinks, even as his stomach clutches pathetically just at the prospect of speaking to Tony alone. Regardless, he knows he’s not in a position to demand anything. That is just the reality of Steve’s choices, of the path that lead him here.

He and Tony may not be enemies anymore, but they will never be friends.

The thought hurts like sharp glass inside Steve’s lungs, but it feels wrong to complain, when just the prospect of them being in the same room together once seemed impossible. In light of all they went through, Tony just standing next to him at their friends’ wedding, talking about truffles, seems like a miracle.

Tony chews and swallows, his eyes snapping towards Steve’s, who is at a loss. Tony’s hand rests on the table behind them and he leans over it, his posture nonchalant.

Steve’s jaw clenches. He has no idea what to say.

“So,” Tony says, after a few moments. His fingers tap the table. “I take it that stuffing your face is your way of enjoying the party, then?”

Steve blinks, a little astonished at how casual he’s being, but he manages to give a shrug with a tentative smile. “No better place to be than at the snack table.”

Tony laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Right,” he breathes, slowly. His index finger taps the table in a steady rhythm, occasionally joined by his thumb. Steve tries to see if he can make out where the tune is from, but he doesn’t recognize it. “Nothing better to do, huh? Makes sense. I mean, what else do people even do at weddings?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. The question is odd, but, like with everything related to Tony, he doesn’t understand it enough to pinpoint why. He’s a little overwhelmed by being the focus of Tony’s attention so abruptly after months of distance, as if he’s been ambushed by a miniature hurricane, but he desperately wants it to last. He searches for words, but finds none—he can’t figure out anything he can say to make Tony stay closer for longer.

Silence stretches out between them, instead. Steve watches as Tony’s eyes dart away from him, to the table, to the floor, to the people dancing in front of them, and then back to Steve.

He never stops tapping the table. He’s practically playing a song on his own, and he’s not even looking.

“You’re having more fun than me,” Steve finally manages, because it seems like a reasonable thing to say. Tony’s eyes widen as if he’s said something outrageous, and Steve hurries to add, “Uh, you and Nat were giving quite the show.”

Tony’s mouth opens and then closes very fast.

“Right,” he says, quickly. “Right, yes, definitely. Me and Nat.” He takes his hands to his pockets, and Steve instantly misses the tapping sound. “Giving quite the show, yeah, I think—I’d say that’s accurate. That’s, hm,” he rocks on the same spot, and Steve feels a frantic energy coming from him, though he doesn’t have the faintest idea why. “That’s a thing people do at weddings, right?”

Steve frowns. “…Dancing?” He asks, hesitant, but Tony snaps his fingers as if he’s said something particularly insightful.

“Dancing! Yeah. Dancing…” His hand closes a little awkwardly, then goes back to his pocket. “That’s. That’s definitely. A thing. That people, uh, do—at a lot of other settings, I suppose, but, yeah, at weddings, too.” He swallows, and Steve notices he’s turned entirely towards him now. “I mean, obviously, if… if they want to.”

Steve stares at him. The proximity makes his cheeks heat a little. The gray suit Tony’s wearing contrasts beautifully with his tanned skin, pulling out a few grains of silver at his temples. Steve’s tongue feels a little heavy in his mouth. “I suppose so.”

“Yeah?” Tony says, and maybe it’s because he’s so close, but his eyes– they are incredibly bright, light brown turning slightly honeyed on the edge of his pupils. It’s Steve’s turn to swallow. “So, uh, so you think maybe, you could, possibly, maybe, want—I mean—would you…?”

He trails off, staring at Steve expectantly, and Steve feels dizzy by that gaze, shifting in the same spot. “Me?” He echoes, confused. He thinks of the grace of Tony’s movements guiding Natasha across the dance floor, of how easy he made it seem. The heat in his cheeks sinks to his neck, his stomach mimicking its movement with dread. Steve forces an awkward chuckle. “No, I don’t think so.”

Tony tilts his head, his eyes sparking—nearly blinding, God—when the light hits them. “Why not?”

Steve pauses for a moment, considering. The idea of dancing used to brings back images of Peggy. Now, though, those seem like memories of a past life, a missed date and dance that belonged to someone else, a different person.

“I can’t dance,” he hears himself saying, and it’s more honest than the words can possibly reveal it. He thinks back on the dance floor, on the people smiling and sweating, giggling and spinning and flirting, and imagining himself there seems like trying to paste a cutout of an old magazine in an Instagram photo. The thought makes his stomach twist, visceral discomfort making his body feel rigid.

Tony, however, doesn’t seem phased. “Everyone can dance,” he replies, as if he’s saying something incredibly obvious.

In his voice, it even sounds true.

Steve draws in a sharp breath. He thinks he gets what Tony is trying to do, now, and the overwhelming generosity of the gesture is such that he feels as if he owes it to him to stare in his eyes before answering: “I’d probably only embarrass myself.”

“Come on, that’s not true,” Tony replies, a grin on his lips. He leans his head forward, and that’s a talent Tony Stark has, making the impossible seem very easy. “I could—”

“Thank you,” Steve cuts him off, because he feels as if he should thank him, at least for trying. “But I don’t think it’d be a good idea, Tony. I’d only hurt someone’s feet, even if you managed to find me a partner.”

“Even if I—” Tony’s mouth snaps shut and his jaw clenches. He blinks incredibly fast, and in a second, he’s looking away, turning towards the table. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath, and Steve frowns, torn between worry and the clutching anxiety of somehow having said the wrong thing. “Okay, no dancing. Uh, I—I think I’m gonna get a drink, do you want any?”

There isn’t a bar, so Steve finds the suggestion a little weird, but Tony doesn’t wait for him to reply, taking a step forward and stopping a waiter.

“Hi, okay, so, I’m just gonna grab two of these, thank you.” He reaches for the tray before the man has a chance to offer anything and grabs two champagne flutes. “Stick around, I’m definitely gonna need you again tonight.” He pats the man on the shoulder, conspiratorial. “Bring something stronger.”

It’s all so fast Steve barely has the chance to react. Before he knows it, Tony is back at his side, though not as close as before. He pushes a flute on Steve’s hand. Steve thinks they should probably toast, but Tony is already taking a sip of his – a sip that drowns out nearly half the glass.

“Ah! Nothing like the taste of a future hangover,” Tony boasts, but there’s still something a little robotic about the way he says it. His eyes jump around the room before turning to Steve and gesturing towards his glass. “Come on, Cap, that’s not gonna drink itself.”

Steve frowns. “You shouldn’t drink anything stronger,” he says, and it sounds grandfatherly to his own ears, but he doesn’t care. He barely has the chance to talk to Tony anymore – the least he can do is tell him the truth.

Tony takes a moment to reply, watching him. Steve thinks he’s going to argue, but instead his mouth curls in a smile – not a Tony Stark signature grin, not a smirk, not a laugh. Just a small, honest smile. “Aye, aye, Captain,” he says, raising his glass towards slightly.

He takes another sip, but this time it’s a small one, and his eyes don’t leave Steve’s face. His smile grows, and then his mouth curls, pressing his lips together, and he looks away.

Steve has no idea what he’s thinking, but then again, that’s the whole thing with Tony, isn’t it? No one has any idea what he’s thinking, ever. No one, and especially not Steve.

“Also,” Steve hears himself saying, though he isn’t sure of what words are really coming out of his mouth, distracted by the smile that was once his and that Tony now directs to the floor. “If you hand a man a drink, usually, it’s a little impolite to not have a toast.”

Tony’s smile grows into a laugh. His eyes sparkle, bright and wide, as he looks at Steve as if what he’s just said is the most wonderful thing he’s heard all day. “Good point,” he says. Then he drowns out his glass and snaps his fingers, not looking away, and the poor waiter, who Steve had forgotten completely about, comes closer to give him two more flutes. “Thanks, buddy,” Tony slips a bill over the tray that Steve is pretty sure is a 100. When he turns to Steve, he raises his glass to meet his. “But you should know, Cap, that both people have to drink to make it a toast.”

“Fair enough.” Steve raises his flute, and the way Tony looks at him makes him feel as if he already drank, sending a pleasant, warm feeling down his chest that makes him grin. “To Vision and Wanda.”

Tony nods. “To Vision not asking me to walk him down the aisle,” he quips, and Steve chuckles, rolling his eyes. There’s something comforting, he thinks, about Tony remaining his witty, snarky self, even after they watched the world burn and rise from its ashes. He grins at Steve’s reaction, his eyes so bright that when the saloon’s light hits them, they could be golden. “To Vision and Wanda,” he echoes, clinking his glass with Steve’s, still grinning.

Steve takes the flute to his lips and takes a sip, but he already feels a little drunk.

* * *

 

(Sam is acting strange, later that evening, when he and Steve share a cab back to the compound. He pointedly avoid Steve’s questions about Bucky, and when Steve finishes talking, he asks, “What about Tony?” As Steve frowns, he adds: “Did anything… happen?”

His tone of voice leaves little doubt about what he is asking, and Steve feels his face heat as he immediately denies it. It’s an insane question, of course – these things don’t really _happen_ with Steve. Sure, in the past, people had flirted with him, sometimes, fascinated by the idea of seducing Captain America. It never amounted to anything, though, because Steve never knew how to take it further. His flirting skills were something the serum never managed to enhance. The closest he ever got to an actual fling had been with Sharon, when adrenaline and gratitude resulted in one kiss that never managed to evolve to anything meaningful, cut short by Steve’s time on the run. After that, obviously, dating was the furthest thing from his mind.

Right now, though, things have calmed down, and Steve is a little shocked to realize Sam isn’t making a joke, but sincerely asking. Which is ridiculous, because, even in the off-chance of Steve getting… _intimate_ with someone at a wedding, it wouldn’t be with Tony, of all people. Tony, more than anyone else, would have no reason to be interested, aware as he is of the many ways Steve doesn’t really live up to the legend built around him.

Sam doesn’t seem to agree, though. When Steve replies, he rolls his eyes and huffs a breath, saying: “Well, be sure to tell me when it does.”

Steve opens his mouth, ready to argue, but then he finds that he can’t find words to speak, because suddenly his mind is invaded by images of an alternative reality where Sam isn’t speaking nonsense.

He can imagine the way Tony’s mouth would feel, pressed against his. Tony’s goatee would scratch his chin, and he’d grin after they broke apart, his eyes very bright, like liquid gold. He’d smell of cologne and a hint of metal, and Steve has the feeling he’d like the metal more. And Tony would hold his waist and pull him closer to the dance floor, annoying and amusing Steve at the same time with his constant fast-paced quips, elegantly guiding their movements as if Steve’s body was an extension of his own.

It’s this image, of both of them on the dance floor, that breaks the illusion, because Steve knows better than anyone that, in real life, he’d be stiff and uncomfortable in this scenario, and even Tony’s natural ability would be hindered by his awkwardness. His musical repertoire is badly outdated, too, his mission of catching up with contemporary music long abandoned as he dedicated himself to work - he wouldn’t even know the songs Tony would want to dance to. And he knows very well he’d never be able to keep with Tony’s smooth steps, that he’d freeze at the first whisper of Tony’s low, warm voice and make him regret asking.

He just can’t dance. He missed the chance to learn from Peggy and then never took the time to learn it from anyone else, and now… it feels like it’s too late.

He and Tony don’t talk much, after the wedding. This isn’t really unexpected – they barely cross paths these days, Steve busy with the renegotiation of the Accords, Tony busy with the new projects he has in partnership with Wakandan tech. Sam’s suggestion may burn a picture on Steve’s mind that’s hard to forget, but at the end of the day, it’s nothing beyond that.)

* * *

 

_December_

 

There are, Steve thinks, probably few places better than the palace of Wakanda to throw a party. And—well, Steve doesn’t know her well enough to say for sure, but, if he were to make a guess, he’d say T’Challa’s new wife definitely knows how to take advantage of that. She is at the center of the gorgeously lit dance floor, leading a group of people beating drums around her.

The wedding is the most colorful, cheerful event Steve has been to in years. He’s pretty sure it’s not actually the main ceremony - this one, he’d bet, took place in private, without outside guests. This, Steve guesses, is a party meant more for the public than for the engaged couple – though they seem to be enjoying themselves well enough.

For his part, Steve isn’t doing too bad either. He spends most of the time in an interesting discussion with General Okoye about training routines, taking mental notes of a few tips. Then, Rhodes, seemingly in a moment of bravery, whisks her away for a dance.

Steve takes a moment to go to the bathroom. After he comes back, though, he finds that most people he could strike up a conversation with are busy. Sam and Bucky are whispering in each other’s ears, and, by now, neither of them even bothers attempting to pretend there isn’t anything there, so Steve knows to just leave them alone to avoid awkwardness. Natasha is talking to two Dora Milage he doesn’t know, Rhodes and Okoye are still dancing, and T’Challa seems unable to even see anyone other than Nakia, as she grins wide and spins in her ceremonial garment.

Steve shifts, a little uncomfortable. After a moment of standing awkwardly, he decides to go to the snacks table. Many of the foods are Wakandan recipes that he doesn’t know, so he thinks he might try them out.

He’s just grabbed what looks like a salmon roll but smells a lot more delicious when a voice says behind him: “Glad to see you’ve found your designated spot.”

He turns immediately, a little startled, because he didn’t see Tony during the ceremony. And yet there he is, impeccably dressed in a two-piece suit that immediately that makes Steve feel underdressed in his old, boring grey suit that he wore only a few months ago at Wanda and Vision’s wedding. Looking at Tony now, incredibly sharp in his dark blue jacket, Steve wishes he’d bothered to buy something new to wear.

“My what?” he says, only now digesting Tony’s words. The corner of Tony’s mouth twists in a lopsided grin.

“Your designated spot,” he repeats, raising his hands and gesturing to the table behind them. “One time is a coincidence; two times, though, you’ve got something to explain, Cap. To be honest, I’m a little scandalized – I never took you for a person who only saw weddings as a chance to eat at the cost of a merry couple.”

Steve shrugs, forgetting the snack on the table. He takes his hands to his pockets instead. “That’s one advantage.”

“Just one?” Tony raises a single eyebrow, tilting his head back as he studies Steve as if he’s said something really intriguing. The white collar of his shirt contrasts with his tanned skin.

“Anyone who saw you would guess it’s the only one. I don’t see you taking advantage of the romantic vibe.”

Steve’s jaw clenches and his face heats. He doesn’t want to discuss his lack of a love life with Tony, of all people. The thought makes his stomach twist in embarrassment, even though he doesn’t understand why – Tony doesn’t seem to judge, merely stating it as a fact, but Steve still feels ridiculous, the truth somehow sounding a lot more pathetic when it comes from Tony’s mouth.

“I didn’t see you during the ceremony,” he says, not so subtly changing the subject. From the way Tony’s eyes dart to his face, he definitely notices, but, thankfully, he doesn’t push it.

“I was late.” He leans back on the table, mimicking Steve and putting his hands in his pockets. His elbow brushes Steve’s forearm at the movement.

“Again?”

“We all have our habits,” he says solemnly, though a grin plays on his lips. Steve doesn’t want to smile back because Tony can’t just be late for something as important as a wedding like that, but it’s hard to not reciprocate. “Mine is bypassing my alarm clock each morning and sleeping until the bride is five steps away from the front door.”

Steve can’t hold back a chuckle. Tony’s grin grows, pleased.

“I did manage to catch the ceremony, though,” he continues. “Incredibly sweet, all the way down to T’Challa’s stutter, but I gotta say, my favorite part?” He leans closer to Steve, conspiratory, and points upwards, to the ceiling. “Whatever the hell is going on with this sound system. It sounds exactly the same in every single spot of the hall, but, according to FRIDAY”--he fishes his phone out of his pocket, shaking it in Steve’s direction--“it’s coming from a single source. Which is bizarre, because this floor is made of wood. It should have terrible acoustics. Still, the sound is perfect. It’s amazing.”

Steve feels his eyes widening slightly. He hadn’t noticed anything particular about the sound before, but, now that Tony mentions, it is interesting. “How does it work?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out,” Tony replies with a smile. “I think I have a guess, it’s in my notes, but I think I’m gonna wait until tomorrow before I give Shuri her bragging rights by asking.” He places the phone back in his pocket, and then shrugs. “Pretty cool, right?”

Something in the way he says it, combined with the fact that they’re still very close, makes warmth bloom in Steve’s chest, prickling to his neck. Steve wants to ask why he’s telling him this – why did he stop partying to find Steve and share something that he didn’t really need to tell him – but he also doesn’t, because he has a feeling asking will push Tony away, and he doesn’t want Tony to go away.

“It is,” he says. Tony’s grin widens, his laugh lines showing, and Steve has a strong urge to touch them somehow. He grips the table behind him instead, not sure of what to say to keep the conversation going. “Can I, uh,” he stutters as Tony lifts his gaze at him. “Can I see your notes?”

It is, apparently, the right thing to say, because Tony’s smile grows to blinding levels before he immediately snaps the phone back from his pocket and launches into a rant about the wave emitting tech that would be necessary for such a system and the algorithms one would need to create it.

Steve doesn’t know anything about stereo systems, but the way Tony talks makes it easy to understand. He’s only half paying attention, though, distracted by the way Tony gestures as he talks, by the way his lips curls as he speaks, by how his body is practically leaning on Steve’s side - by how he doesn’t seem to think there’s any reason to not be this close.

“Tell you what,” Tony says, eventually, his hand coming up to Steve’s shoulder. His grip isn’t tight, but it still sends a shiver down Steve’s spine. “I’m getting into the physics of it right now, so we should probably get you a drink for this.”

 _We_ is another thing that shouldn’t make Steve tongue-tied, but it does. He manages to nod as Tony walks him to the bar, hand descending from his shoulder to his bicep, not really pulling him, just… touching him, very casually and very close, as if this is something they do all the time.

Tony stops right in front of the bar. The bartender is a young woman, clearly flustered by his appearance, cheeks darkening when he grins in her direction. “One sparkling water,” he says, winking at her. Then his hand goes from Steve’s bicep to his forearm, and he gives him a light squeeze, turning towards him. “What about you?”

“Uh,” Steve hesitates, distracted by the light, warm pressure of Tony’s hand. “A beer.”

“Okay.” Tony turns again towards the bartender, still holding Steve’s arm. His free hand points to Steve with his thumb. “And a beer for him,” he says, and—and Steve’s stomach clenches and flutters, as if a hundred butterflies had taken flight inside him at the same time. The way Tony says it, the way Tony is _touching_ him, it’s—it’s as if they’re together, as if there’s indeed a _thing_ going on, as Sam had said, and just the thought is enough to make Steve dizzy.

The drinks come quickly. Instead of waiting for Steve to take his, Tony picks both of them up and hands Steve his beer, as if he’s bought it for him.

“Cheers,” Tony says, clinking their glasses, but it’s a far cry from their toast months ago. There’s something incredibly focused about Tony’s eyes as he watches Steve take his sip, something that makes Steve’s tie feel too tight.

He watches the way Tony’s mouth curls when he lowers his glass, the way it breaks into an approving smile as if Steve’s done something amazing.

“Nice one.” His hand gives Steve’s arm another light squeeze, and he’s closer now. Steve can see the touch of grey in his temples, could count every single one of his laugh lines. “You’ve improved your drinking game,” he says. His voice sounds as if he’s complimenting Steve on something else, bigger than drinking. It’s almost silly, but a purposeful type of silliness, almost directed, almost like…

_Flirting?_

The thought hits Steve like a brick on the back of his head. He shifts in place, his mind a mess, unable to follow its usual course of thoughts, inebriated by Tony’s presence. The casual talk, the closeness, the excessive friendliness – is Tony flirting with him? The idea sends a rush through his whole body, but he—he isn’t sure; and, even if it is true, he doesn’t know what to say, how to reciprocate. The only thing that comes to his mind, clear and desperate, is what he can’t say: _don’t leave._

It’s only then that he notices Tony’s choice of drink. “You—uh, you’ve weakened yours. Uh, your drinking game, I mean,” he says, and it’s a weak joke, but Tony grins anyway, easy and bright. He’s _glowing,_ there’s no other way of putting it.

“Yeah.” His eyes, his smile, all his focus entirely on Steve - it’s almost overwhelming, but it’s an overwhelming Steve can’t get enough of. “Don’t want to drink tonight,” he says, between a smile Steve is pretty certain could melt actual titanium. Then he swallows, his nostrils widening as he takes a deep breath. “You know, I… I have a room at the palace.”

It’s as if the salon shrinks, the air tightening itself, restrained only to the short space between the two of them. Heat curls low in Steve’s belly, prickles his neck. He opens his mouth, then shuts it immediately, unable to find words.

“Yeah?” He manages, his breath uneven, blood roaring on his ears. Tony is so close now – leaning towards him, looking at Steve through long lashes, big hand still settled comfortably on Steve’s arm, as if it belongs there. Closer than he’s ever been.

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, nodding slight, and now his voice carries none of the casual friendly from before. It’s hushed, almost a whisper, and it grows an octave lower when he tilts his head. “Maybe we could go there?”

His voice is silky, dripping with honey and promises, but the interrogation at the end still poses a clear question, a way out for Steve if he needs one.

He’s never needed one _less._

“Yes,” he says - too breathlessly, perhaps, too fast, but he—he doesn’t know how to do this, how to match Tony’s smoothness.

Tony doesn’t seem to mind, though, his smile growing, his hand clutching the sleeve of Steve’s jacket. He leans forward, his head turning so he’s turned towards Steve’s ear. He tilts his chin and his goatee touches Steve’s ear, sends a shudder through his whole body. “Then what are we waiting for?”

* * *

 

They don’t speak on the way to the room. Tony says something, Steve thinks, but he can barely hear it, too focused on following his steps, on staying moving before he stops to think about what they’re doing and wakes up.

“Here,” Tony says when they arrive in a doorway.

He opens the door and comes inside, Steve following soon after. The suite is roomy and fancy, not unlike Steve’s own, but Steve is oblivious to any details of the decoration, blood roaring on his ears.

When Tony turns to close the door, he fumbles a little with his keycard, dropping it. “Shit,” he blurts, picking it up. Steve’s eyes are drawn to his rear, to the way his wool pants evidence his thighs. His face burns, and he looks away.

It’s when he sees the king-sized bed that reality starts dawning on him, and his breath grows short and uneven. What are they doing?

“There you go,” Tony says, as the door closes. He turns toward Steve, and just that makes Steve’s heart pound too heavily on his chest, and he thinks he won’t be able to go through with it. Just with Tony looking at him like this, he already can’t breathe.

“Tony,” he says, a little like he’s gonna say something else, a little like it’s just a statement of fact. And it is, he thinks – a statement of the only thing he can think of and see now, overwhelming all his senses. A thousand sensations he can’t name in one word: Tony.

“Hey,” Tony grins, his voice calm. He has done this many times before, Steve reminds himself. It’s nothing new to him.

Then, to Steve’s surprise, he walks past him, to the fridge. “Do you want to drink anything? I have wine that’s supposed to cost a few million here – might be good for a sip or two.”

Steve takes a sharp breath, half relieved and half bothered by Tony turning his back to him. “No, thank you.”

Tony looks over his shoulder and smiles. “Thought so.” He fishes his phone out of his pockets, presses a few buttons.

Steve almost jumps when a few notes of music start playing. It’s not loud, just enough to fill in the background sounds. When he calms down, it’s pleasant, though, and he feels his nerves easing a little as Tony comes closer.

When a low, unmistakable voice starts singing, Steve smiles. “Wouldn’t have pegged you as a Sinatra guy.”

“I've been told I’m full of surprises,” Tony replies, alluring. He takes a step forward and Steve shivers at his expression, his friendly grin sharpening into something more intense, focused. His eyes are blazing, and Steve swallows, heat curling low in his belly.

Tony moves, and Steve almost shudders in anticipation, but instead of touching him, Tony extends his hand.

“Dance with me?” he asks, and Steve blinks, confused. He’s entirely unprepared for the question, and his mouth opens without any sound coming out, so he hurries to close it, clicking his jaw.

“I,” he manages, as Tony takes another step forward, his hand a silent question. “I don’t—”

Tony gives a short nod, but his eyes never waver. “Can’t dance,” he says, slowly. “I know.” Then, in a second, before Steve can even process it, his hand is at his neck, fingers touching the nape of his hair. “In that case,” Tony whispers, his voice a purr, tantalizing, his lips so close to Steve’s he can feel the brush of his warm breath. “Why don’t we do something else, hm?”

His fingers scrape Steve’s neck, shivers following his touch. Steve can smell the delicious, woody spice Tony’s cologne. His knees feel weak.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question takes Steve by surprise because of how genuine it seems. It’s as if Tony honestly doesn’t know the answer, and it’s almost bizarre—it’s as if he's asking Steve if he needs air to live, or if water is wet.

“Yes,” he whispers.

Tony’s eyes widen, but then Steve feels the light touch of his fingers, his hands on Steve’s cheeks. The contact makes Steve close his eyes for a moment, lean onto the warmth before opening them again. Tony’s hands are big and calloused, and Steve immediately wants to feel them everywhere, as he’s never wanted anything else before.

It happens so slowly, so _deliberately_ , Steve feels as if it would be an insult to ask Tony if he’s sure. He tilts his head upwards, towards Steve, and comes closer, his eyes growing bigger every second, his nose brushing Steve’s just slightly before he angles his face a little to the left. The press of his mouth is as light as a feather, a small touch that could easily be brushed away.

Steve’s first thought is: _why_ ? _Why are you doing this_ , he wants to ask, as Tony pulls merely an inch away, his breath still warming Steve’s lips. But he also never wants to speak again – never wants to use his mouth to do anything that isn’t kissing Tony, feeling the scratchy brush of Tony’s goatee against his chin.

“Good?” Tony asks, and the hesitance is his voice is too much. Arousal floods Steve’s every thought, and it feels absurd, downright _insane_ that Tony could even ask that, because, no—it’s not good, it’s so much more than good, it’s everything and Steve needs more, needs _Tony,_ right now.

His body acts of its own volition, hands going to Tony’s collar, pulling him in again in a kiss as messy as it is urgent. He’s clumsy, his tongue seeking Tony’s as a dying man in the desert seeks water. In the back of his mind, he thinks Tony must be used to better kisses—Steve has such little experience, and nothing that even compares to this.

This logic turns to dust a second later, when Tony starts kissing back, and everything Steve has that even remotely resembles a rational thought vanishes at the scorching heat of his mouth, at the feel of his scruff burning his lips, at the way Tony’s hands descend to his waist and pull him closer. Tony’s body is firm and lean against his and suddenly every layer of clothing Steve is wearing feels like an inconvenience.

They break away momentarily, and even as Steve pants, he can’t help but notice the gorgeous flush in Tony’s skin, how his chest heaves up and down as he breathes.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and Steve isn’t even going to dignify that with an answer. He knows Tony is used to this sort of thing, and he must be able to tell Steve isn’t, which explains all the questions. But Steve doesn’t want to be coddled – doesn’t want to Tony to worry about offending his sensibilities or anything of the sort. So he starts to take action, taking his hands to his tie, loosening it.

And he has imagined this for so long – plenty of times, in the privacy of his bedroom, in dreams where he couldn’t chastise himself for wanting. He had imagined Tony’s wicked grin, his strong hands, his skillful fingers climbing up Steve’s thighs, grabbing his rear, his pink mouth swallowing every single one of Steve’s gasps.

What he hadn’t imagined, though, is the gentleness with which Tony’s hands climb up to his wrists, how he lowers them with a smile so tender it melts away the rush, steadying the beat of Steve’s heart. “Let me,” he whispers, fingers coming up to Steve’s collar.

He loosens Steve’s tie slowly, then runs his fingers over the blue silk, removing it from Steve’s neck and setting it aside carefully. Then his hands descend down Steve’s chest, finding the lapels of his jacket, pushing it off him. Tony’s hands follow the jacket’s path down his arms. Every moment is slow, but not hesitant – it’s deliberate, like the kiss, as if every second of it matters just as much as what they’re about to do.

As Tony starts undoing the buttons of Steve’s shirt, the air feels short, unable to fill Steve’s desperate lungs. Instead of the blinding desire of before, his arousal builds in a crescendo, following every movement of Tony’s fingers, every flicker of his eyes over newly revealed skin. His stomach clutches at the thought of being exposed, but above all is the _want_ , the need for Tony, Tony everywhere.

When Tony finishes opening his shirt, his hands climb back to Steve’s shoulders to pull it down his arms, and the darkness of his eyes is almost too much to bear. Steve longs for his mouth, for Tony's kisses to devour his lips, to mark his face with beard burn.

Instead, though, Tony raises his hand and touches Steve’s hair, tenderly swiping a few of longest locks back.

“Gorgeous,” he says, his voice hoarse. Steve blushes hot, can only imagine how he looks now, shirtless and exposed, his flush descending down his chest. “Baby, are you sure you—”

It’s the endearment that sends an electric current over Steve’s body, and he can’t, just _can’t_ not feel Tony’s mouth on his anymore, so he pretty much dives onto him, mouth desperate, hands grabbing fistfuls of Tony’s jacket. He whispers _yes_ hurriedly between kisses, breathing a nuisance that occasionally forces him away from Tony’s mouth. _Yes_ as he pulls away with a smacking, wet noise; _yes_ as he clumsily pulls off Tony’s jacket; _yes_ as he takes a few steps forward and pretty much tackles Tony on the bed. _Yes_ exuding from his every pore, every cell of his body busy in an endless chorus of _Tony, Tony, Tony._

“Steve,” Tony whispers, in between kisses, when Steve starts fumbling with his belt. He tilts his head, so Steve ends up kissing the corner of his lips, which he doesn’t mind in the slightest, loving the thought of kissing Tony’s laugh lines. He keeps going, mouth enjoying the feel of Tony’s skin, descending slightly to his jaw. In the meantime, Tony’s belt grows from an inconvenience to downright evil, Steve’s hands frantic in their mission to take it off until Tony stills them. “Baby, what do you want?”

“You,” Steve replies immediately, because, isn’t it obvious? “Want you, Tony, want…” He trails off, unable to speak, focusing instead on pressing more kisses along the line of Tony’s neck, feeling his muscles pulsing, the smell of his skin.

“You have me,” Tony says, hands tightening on Steve’s wrists, pulling them away. He fights dirty, because the second Steve starts to protest, Tony’s mouth is at his neck, and what comes out is a gasping noise instead. “That’s not in question. What I want to know--” he shifts on the bed, pulling Steve closer by his waist. His hand climbs up Steve’s side and finds one of his pecs, fingers circling around a hard nipple. “--Is _how_ you want me, gorgeous.” His other hand goes to Steve’s jaw, turns his face to him. He kisses him slowly, then pulls back and flicks his thumb over Steve’s nipple. Steve gasps, and Tony keeps going, rolling the nub between his index finger and his thumb, pulling slightly and pressing short kisses at Steve’s mouth. “Just name it, and I’ll do it. Anything.”

Steve can't think. He can only feel the sparks of pleasure Tony’s fingers send down his chest, the warm, wet feel of Tony’s mouth, now at his jaw. “I--” he tries, but it feels impossible to say what he wants aloud, even though he knows it, deep down. Ridiculously, he’s suddenly embarrassed, as if hearing it in his awkward, strained voice would somehow break the spell, somehow change Tony’s mind. He swallows, though, pushes the discomfort away, determined to answer. “I… just…”

Tony presses a deep, sucking kiss on his neck, and Steve lets out a noise he didn’t know he was capable of making. He’s sweating, his body trembling.

“Want… Want you, Tony. Want to… feel you,” he manages, feeling pathetic for not being able to say it plainly. He knows he must sound old-fashioned, prudish, the opposite of the type of partners Tony must usually choose, who Steve bets can keep up with him.

“Oh, honey, that’s perfect,” Tony purrs in his ear, and Steve shivers, his insecurity melting away at the tenderness in his words, being replaced by sheer arousal when Tony’s hands go lower, grabbing his rear. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he whispers, and Steve can feel Tony's grin against his neck, but he has no time to reply, because, in the next second, Tony’s hands are massaging his ass, squeezing tightly in a rhythm that makes Steve whimper.

Tony chuckles softly.

“God, your _noises_ ,” he says, pressing smacking kisses to the curve of Steve’s neck. “You’re so sensitive, I knew it.” He pulls away for a moment, facing Steve, his eyes pitch-dark as he takes a sharp breath: “And I’m gonna make you feel _everything._ ”

Steve’s response is a full body shudder, and in a second Tony’s hands are on his belt, unbuttoning and taking it off with an ability that utterly shames Steve’s flimsy attempts to get rid of his earlier. He opens Steve’s pants with a similar ease.

Steve thinks of how many times Tony has done that. It’s insane, for him, to think that someone - multiple people - once had Tony’s hands on them and just lived their life afterwards as if nothing happened. Every touch on Steve’s skin feels like a mark he’ll never forget.

“Gotta get you out of these pants,” Tony says, opening Steve’s zipper and pulling them down. Steve helps by kicking them off, and Tony’s hands immediately climb to his thighs, squeezing before he gets to his goal, Steve’s boxers, which he strips off incredibly quickly, as if they’re offending him.

Steve’s cock is incredibly hard, bouncing against his stomach. Steve feels a hot wave of embarrassment when he notices he’s already leaking, but then he looks up and sees Tony’s face.

He expects to feel taken aback, but just like before, it’s different. The intensity in Tony’s face isn’t directed at his leaking cock, but at the full extension of Steve’s body. Steve is enveloped, devoured by that gaze. He takes a breath, but no air reaches his lungs.

Tony swallows, as if he’s recovering, then smiles – his smile is large and apologetic, but so damn gorgeous, Steve can’t even find the words for it. “Sorry,” he says. His hand goes to his own tie, loosening it and pulling it off his collar. He shakes his head, looking at Steve full of wonder. “It’s just… I think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen naked.”

Steve feels his flush descending to his chest. “Thanks,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Tony laughs, his smile bright, eyes crinkling. The collar of his crisp, white shirt contrasts with his tanned skin. He is the most beautiful person Steve’s ever seen, period.

Steve clenches his jaw, aware of the inappropriateness of those thoughts in a casual one night stand scenario. He grabs Tony’s shirt and pulls him into a deep kiss.

His hope is to distract Tony enough to get him naked. Instead, his attempts grow clumsier as the kiss grows harder, and Steve ends up popping a few buttons of his shirt off, in his hurry to remove it.

“Sorry,” he grunts, even though, if he’s honest, he’s not sorry at all, and especially not when Tony shrugs the shirt off, letting Steve see his dusky nipples; his lean, compact shape; and the small, glowing triangle at the center of his chest, radiating blue light that colors the bronze skin around it.

The sight knots Steve’s throat. Tony’s heart.

“Can I…?” he asks, hovering his hand in the air, and Tony nods. His eyes are big and gorgeous and impossible to read as Steve raises his hand to the reactor. His finger traces the sensitive skin around it.

“It’s, uh,” Tony says, his voice a little shaky. “It’s old. The. The scar tissue, I mean. It’s from the old one.”

Steve inhales sharply. Of course, he thinks. This is the one Tony chose to have – not a need carved out by the threat of shrapnel. It’s Tony’s heart, built from his own hands, shiny and wonderful, on display in his chest to the entire world. The entire world, including Steve, who gets to touch it, to see it closely.

The weight of this, this—honor, this privilege, is almost too much, and Steve feels his eyes burning. He doesn’t want to cry, though, doesn’t want to do anything that could make Tony uncomfortable, so instead he shuts his eyes, leans forward and presses a small, tender kiss on the center of the reactor, feeling the hard surface against his lips.

It’s an impulsive act, and, when he raises his head, he feels embarrassed, worried Tony will find it silly. But there are no words for the look on Tony’s face, when Steve’s eyes find his.

“You—God _damnit._ ” Is all he says before throwing himself over Steve, pulling him in a toe-curling kiss and pushing him to lay on the bed. After that, rational thought becomes a luxury very distant from Steve’s mind, hopeless against the wet, deep kisses Tony presses all over his neck while his hands are back on Steve’s nipples, pinching and pulling. Tony straddles him, and Steve’s cock brushes the front of his pants, feeling the hardness of his erection against the fine wool, and Steve lets out a moan that’s immediately lost to Tony’s tongue.

Tony rolls his hips forward, a hurricane of kisses and touches growing more urgent, more intense. He scrapes his teeth over Steve’s nipple, then sucks on it, hips keeping up friction against Steve’s needy, leaking cock.

 _“Tony—_ ” Steve whines, and Tony presses a biting kiss on his neck that turns the whine into a loud moan. Steve’s hands go to Tony’s back, feeling his hard muscles slick with sweat, and Tony rolls his hips forward again, and Steve is suddenly terrified of losing it right then and there. “Tony, I’m gonna—”

“I know,” Tony says, slowing down his rhythm. His hands abandon Steve’s abused nipples and travel to his ass, groping both buttocks in a steady, strong hold. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re too much, _fuck.”_

He presses a kiss to Steve’s lips, chaste. Steve’s mouth is sensitive from all the kissing, so even that touch is enough to make him shiver.

Then Tony pulls away and takes a deep breath, resting his forehead on Steve’s shoulder. “Jesus. Look at me—said I was going to do what you want and then practically hump you like a horndog.” He props himself up by his arms. “Give me one second.”

He rolls away, and Steve has to fight back a whine at the cold that hits his body at the absence of Tony over him. It last barely a moment, though, because in one second Tony’s back, his muscular thighs evident as he kneels in front of Steve.

“Here.” He leans forward and motions for Steve to raise his hips, propping a pillow under him. Steve’s heart pounds heavily on his chest as Tony comes closer.

He opens his pants in one simple, sleek movement (Steve almost doesn’t hate the belt anymore), letting Steve see the tent of his underwear. Steve feels a possessive, irrational rush at the royal blue color, but his mind goes blank when Tony takes it off, revealing his thick, gorgeous cock. Steve’s mouth waters at the sight, and he’d be shocked with himself, he really would, if he weren’t too busy thinking _yes, yes, right now, please._

Tony isn’t oblivious to his look, quirking up an eyebrow and giving Steve a wicked grin as he leans forward and palms his thighs, opening his legs. “Glad to please,” he says with a wink, and Steve lets out a surprised laugh that ends when Tony covers his mouth with a kiss.

“Hmmm,” Tony hums, pulling away with a broad smile. “I was hoping I’d get to see that.” His hand climbs up Steve’s thigh as he speaks, settling on the curve of his ass. “This laugh of yours—I swear it must have healing properties.”

The comment is too silly for Steve not to chuckle. “Yeah?” he asks, cut off by a sigh as Tony’s hand grabs his ass tightly, fingers slipping inwards, finding the rim of Steve’s entrance. “I’m— _ah_ —I’m also—glad to please.”

Tony’s smile grows, sly. “Hmm, yes, I bet you are.” His fingers start moving in a light tease, slick with lube, and God—when did Tony even slick them up? “But not right now, baby.” Steve feels light pressure as the tip of one finger breaches him, and he tenses up a little.

“Have you ever done this before?” Tony asks.

The question is a shock, personal in a way Steve wasn’t expecting, so it takes him a moment, even if Tony’s hand slows down considerably, focusing only on teasing Steve’s rim. “Yes,” he breathes, though the memory – a nameless stranger, picked up once in a night Steve just couldn’t sleep and ended up in a bar, desperate for someone, anyone, who wouldn’t call him _Cap_ – feels like something completely different from what he and Tony are doing right now, not even in the same stratosphere. “Just—once.”

“Okay.” Tony punctuates his statement with a long, deep kiss, and Steve feels himself relaxing, his body welcoming the weight of Tony over him.

They kiss for a long time before Tony’s finger pushes for his entrance again, and this time it’s easier – it slips inside, a pressure that feels a little strange but not uncomfortable. Tony introduces a second finger, and it burns a little more this time, but then he starts a circular movement, pushing deeper. It’s painful for a moment, but he keeps moving, and then--and _then_ everything changes, pleasure building inside Steve at every flicker of Tony’s wrist, and his body starts bucking back, wanting to sink further onto Tony’s fingers.

“Eager,” Tony says with a grin, removing his hand. Steve lets out a straight up _whine,_ but he barely has the time to feel embarrassed about it before he feels the pressure of Tony’s thick length.

“Tony,” Steve says, his own voice unrecognizable, broken and desperate. It _burns,_ as Tony leans forward and presses inside, but it’s a fucking delicious burn, the feeling of being filled up by Tony, just Tony. Steve can’t help but squirm, his knees tapping Tony’s shoulders as he fights to sink more, to take Tony in fully.

Tony’s voice is also unrecognizable, hoarse and low as one of his hands goes to Steve’s neck, grabs his hair. “ _Fuck—Steve_ —” He starts moving, his hips rocking forward and backwards in a steady rhythm.

As Steve feels the hard length of Tony moving inside him, he loses track of his own words, his mouth a mess of sounds and noises, out of his control. Tony’s head sinks on his neck, his lips whispering a million praises mixed with aimless swears, as he gains traction. Steve marvels at his breathless state, at the mess of the usually so sharp man he knows. “So good, baby—God, I fucking knew it, knew you’d feel _perfect_ —” He thrusts forward, hands going to Steve’s ass and tightening it around his dick, and Steve has no idea what he’s saying, no idea what sounds are coming of his mouth, except that they all mean _Tony_ and _more_ . “Fuck, you have no _idea—_ ”

Steve really has no idea, because the next words are drowned out by his increasingly loud moans, as Tony keeps going.

“Come for me, gorgeous,” Tony says, eyes a deep dark as he stares down at Steve, his hair sticking to his forehead. His hand finds Steve’s cock, closes his fist around it and starts moving up and down, slicking him up with pre-come. “Come for me—you’re so beautiful, God, I need to see you when you—”

Tony cuts himself off with a groan when Steve clenches around him, his wrist flicking, making a corkscrew motion on Steve’s shaft, then moving up to his head. When he increases the speed, he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Steve’s collarbone, sucking a bruise as he keeps whispering, his words growing more and more impossible to discern as Steve’s pleasure builds, culminating when he can hear the broken note in Tony’s voice as he whispers, _Steve_.

Steve's orgasm washes over him, and he comes all over his belly with a loud, embarrassing high-pitched sigh. It’s blinding, white-hot pleasure that stops Steve from seeing or hearing anything for a moment, and then he sinks down, boneless, into the mattress, Tony’s thrusts growing shorter and more urgent.

Tony is babbling nonsense, now. His hands are so strong on Steve’s hips - they're bound to leave marks, and Steve wishes he didn’t have the serum so they wouldn’t fade for weeks.

When Tony comes, Steve feels his spunk fill him up, and a part of him wishes it could just stay there, not leak out. He wants to keep Tony inside of him as much as possible.

Tony sinks, breathless, over Steve’s body - and he looks so gorgeous, flushed and disheveled.

Steve feels like he’s floating, and he thinks he must’ve fallen asleep, because the light touches of Tony caressing his neck and kissing his face are too good to actually be happening. He forces his eyes to stay open, though, reluctant to miss that sight of Tony, over him, touching him. He’s so beautiful it’s impossible, and since this seems to be a night for impossible things, Steve wants to at least believe he can be Tony's a little longer.

* * *

 

(When Steve wakes up, Tony is sitting up right next to him on the bed, having already woken up, with his phone in his hands.

Steve blinks himself awake and glances at Tony. His face is focused, mouth curled, the tip of his pink tongue sticking out as he thinks. He’s frowning, a wrinkle between his eyebrows, but he doesn’t seem upset, just intrigued. His eyes are curious, endless shades of brown and gold, shining with a spark of interest. Sun rays come through the window and bring out the stripes of silver in his hair.

Steve feels a knot in his throat. Last night had felt like a dream, but now reality is sinking in, and it’s nearly claustrophobic, having Tony so close and knowing he won’t be able to have him again. Memories of his actions flood his thoughts, and he feels himself blushing at the things he’d said, how transparent he was. Just the memory of the pleasure makes his skin prickle, hot at the thought of Tony over him, but...

He clenches his jaw. There’s no sheet over him, and he feels incredibly exposed, naked on the bed. He’s still watching Tony, who remains unaware that Steve'’s awoken. His mind races through the night’s memories, and embarrassment builds up inside him. Tony had thought he hadn’t been with anyone before – he definitely noticed Steve’s clumsiness and his lack of technique. He'd probably expected something more, maybe was interested in testing Steve’s enhanced abilities in bed, and then all Steve had done was… lay there. Christ - he nearly came before Tony even took off his pants. He hadn’t even been able to undo Tony’s _belt_.

He shifts on the bed without thinking, his discomfort too much to bear, and of course Tony notices, his eyes snapping to him.

Tony's face breaks in a bright, easy grin. Even filled with embarrassment, Steve wants to taste that grin so badly it hurts. He looks at Tony’s laugh lines and wishes he’d kissed them more when he had the chance. He isn’t naïve enough to think he’ll get this opportunity again.

“Hey,” Tony says, soft and friendly, and his voice is like a warm blanket. Steve wants to curl up in it, to curl up on him and never let him go. He stares at the ceiling instead. “Slept well?”

Steve takes a moment to answer. Tension builds up in his muscles, his back stiff even against the soft bed. “Yeah,” he finally grunts, because it’s true. He slept better than he had in months.

Tony must nod in response, because he doesn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch between them in a way so uncharacteristic Steve wonders if he’s given the wrong answer.

He sits up, unable to lie still anymore. “I should, uh--” His eyes sweep the room, seeing the mess of clothes scrambled by the bed. “I should get dressed.”

He risks a glance at Tony, but his expression is impossible to read. “I think your boxers fell over there,” Tony says, indicating the corner of the bed. Steve practically jumps to retrieve them, wanting to avoid that blinding, overwhelming gaze. As he pulls his boxers on and reaches for his pants, he hears Tony’s voice behind him: “Don’t you want to have a shower?”

“I have a shower in my suite,” Steve replies. He knows he must be a little disgusting, sticky and sweaty, but he wishes Tony, at least, would pretend not to notice.

“Right,” Tony’s response is a little strange, almost robotic. Steve wonders if there’s something he’s missing, some crucial component of one night stand etiquette he just isn’t aware of. “I suppose you’re not hungry either, are you?”

“What?” Steve asks, turning towards him. Tony tilts his head while staring at him, and Steve's cheeks heat further. Whatever he was supposed to do, he thinks, he’s certainly not doing it right. “Hungry? No, I’m… I’m not hungry.” Tony’s eyes are intense as he stares, and Steve shifts on the same spot. His hand rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly, I… I dunno. I. I think I should get dressed.”

His words sound ridiculous to his own ears, but something he says must go over well, because Tony’s expression grows softer, and his mouth curls in a small smile. “That’s probably a good idea,” he says. “Walking down the hallway naked is one way to ensure you never get another invitation.” He nods towards a pile of clothing on the other side of the bed. “Your shirt is in there.”

Steve finishes buckling his belt, then walks to the pile and pulls out his shirt and jacket. His tie is easier to spot, hanging from the corner of the mattress, but he doesn’t bother putting it on, picking it up and stuffing it in his pocket instead.

While he dresses, Tony watches him, in silence. When Steve finishes, he turns towards him, unsure of what to say. To his surprise, Tony smiles.

“Your shirt is inside out,” he says. Steve looks down hurriedly, and he hears a chuckle. “Nah, I’m kidding. I wouldn’t let you know if it were.” He winks, and Steve feels himself smiling.

“Yes, you would,” he says. Then he sticks his hands in his pockets, rocking awkwardly a little. “I… I should probably…”

“Go?” Tony asks with a raise of his eyebrows. His voice is casual, friendly. Steve feels something sink inside him at how at ease he seems, how this is definitely something he’s dealt with many times before. “Go ahead, Cap. I know you’re a busy guy.”

Steve nods. “Okay,” he says, turning towards the door. He can’t help but stop, after a few steps. He draws in a short breath. “Tony?” He turns, and Tony seems surprised. Steve clenches his jaw. This is definitely not proper one night stand behavior, but it feels wrong, to not say it. “Thank you,” he blurts, his face hot, forcing himself to not look away. “I… Uh, you were really… just… Thank you.”

Maybe it isn’t the right thing to say, but Steve doesn’t mind, because the bright smile Tony gives him in return is worth making a fool of himself for. “Don’t mention it.” As Steve turns, he hears him adding, “See you later, Steve.”

It’s said in the most casual tone possible, but still, the use of his name is like a caress, a kiss like one of the many they’ve shared only a couple hours ago, and it feels as if it marks Steve’s skin just as much.)

* * *

 

_March_

 

When the fireworks start, Steve’s first reaction is to reach for his shield.

As everyone around him cheers, though, reality dawns on him, and he forces himself out of his fighting stance. Now that he looks at it, through the window on the other side of the room, the lights and colors exploding on the dark sheet of space aren’t really _fireworks_ , or at least not fireworks like the ones Steve knows. Maybe it’s magic – according to Thor, Loki was instrumental in the wedding’s planning.

It doesn’t really matter, though. The two brides – now wives, Steve corrects himself mentally – seem to enjoy it. Carol puts two fingers in her mouth and lets out a loud whistle; Valkyrie, holding her waist, laughs.

The wedding is unlike anything Steve’s ever seen. Neither of them are wearing bridal gowns. Valkyrie is in armor, and Carol has on a fitted, red suit Steve suspects might have been Tony’s suggestion. It’s less of a ceremony and more of an incredibly cheerful party in the Asgardian ship, orbiting around Earth. Booze is passed around everywhere, and although there are no waiters, there’s a huge table with food that never seems to run out.

Music plays loudly, but Steve doesn’t even recognize the language the song is being sung in. He’s near a window, hearing battle stories from Thor and Sif, when a fight breaks out in the opposite corner of the room and both of them have to go break two drunk Asgardians apart.

Steve sips on his drink. The warmth that goes down his throat is still surprising, even if it’s not his first sip. Valkyrie had raised a single eyebrow at him when he said he couldn’t get drunk, then handed him the mead with a _if that doesn’t work, you can consider yourself immortal_.

Steve doesn’t feel drunk yet, but there's time. He twirls the cup in his hand, standing awkwardly in the spot where Thor and Sif left him.

A slower song starts playing, and he risks a glance at the dance floor. Sam and Bucky are dancing – they seem oblivious to everyone else around them, whispering to each other what Steve is pretty sure must be snarky comments. There’s nothing snarky about their smiles, though, and Steve’s own mouth curls a little.

Steve is happy for them. No one deserves happiness more than his two best friends, and Steve is proud of them for letting themselves have this. Right now, though, he wishes they weren’t in the middle of a romantic moment, because he really wishes he had someone, anyone, to talk to.

 _Anyone?_ A small, mean-spirited voice whispers in his head. _Or a very specific someone?_

Steve swallows, then follows it with another sip.

He and Tony hadn’t seen each other, after Steve left the room in Wakanda. They had, however, talked more than they used to. Tony texted him, just a week afterwards, a picture of a cat wearing a Captain America-themed costume. Steve had been weirded out, because he was certain he hadn’t licensed anything of the sort – he told that to Tony, who asked, _Really? Is that your reaction to a picture of a cat dressed up as you?_ and that developed into a back-and-forth.

After that, Tony sent him other pictures. He didn’t always send things he found online – sometimes he sent pictures of modifications he was making to the nanites, or of a member of the board piking his nose, or even, on one occasion, of a very appetizing plate of pasta.

Steve would reply, and they’d talk, and it’d be… nice. Sometimes it would result in Steve looking a little silly, grinning at his phone.

Tony never suggested they meet, though, or alluded to that night in any way. Steve wondered what that meant - if the mundane texting was just Tony’s attempt to rekindle their friendship, or if there was something more behind it. He wondered if Tony thought it was an unspoken deal, then, that what they did in Wakanda could happen more times - or, alternatively, if it wouldn’t ever happen again at all. It was hard to say. None of Tony’s texts sounded remotely flirty, but Steve can’t help but wonder - there are shades of grey between a relationship and a one night stand, and the thought of feeling Tony’s hands on him again is too tempting for him to not even hope.

Tired of standing near the dance floor, Steve moves closer to the ship’s window. The view of space is beautiful, deep but still flooded with the colors of the things Steve can’t call fireworks. Steve especially likes to look at the Earth, seeming so small at such a distance.

“We need to stop meeting like this,” a voice says beside him, and Steve is smiling before he even turns to look.

When he does look, his smile freezes.

It’s Tony, of course. But it’s Tony in a dark suit and a deep red tie, holding a glass in his hand. He has a smile on his lips, his characteristic goatee perfectly trimmed, and his hair is a light shade of grey, his features seeming more intense by the contrast.

His smile grows at Steve’s stare, those eyes finding his, and—and Steve can’t _think._ A wave of raw desire washes over him; he’s suddenly unaware of anyone else on the ship, in the goddamn universe, other than Tony, standing there with his bright eyes and grey hair.

Tony tilts his head. “Everything okay?” he asks, and Steve has to fight the urge to grab his tie and shut Tony's mouth with his right then and there, in front of everyone.

“I--I’m,” Steve stammers, his face hot, eyes landing on Tony’s mouth, on those pink lips he knows are so, so soft. “Your hair.”

Tony’s eyes widen, and his hand goes to his head, self-conscious. “What? Uh, yeah, I—I missed my appointment with my colorist. Kinda rude to bring it up like this, Cap, I wouldn’t—Ooh.” He blinks, frowning for a moment, and then raises his eyebrows. “Is that… Is that a thing?”

Steve’s next breath is sharp, and it reminds him that the only thing he wants to breathe right now is Tony’s cologne. “I…” He can’t even bring himself to feel embarrassed for being so obvious - the only thing he can think, right now, is that if there’s even the slightest chance Tony might want him, he needs to take it. “I have a room at… Thor, he got me a…” He's frustrated with himself, his face burning, for not being able to say it in the same smooth way Tony would.

But Tony just smiles, his eyes with an alluring spark, leaning closer. “Yeah?” He says, grinning as if Steve has said something really daring. “Lead the way, Cap.”

* * *

 

Despise Steve’s state, it’s slower, this time. Tony kisses him right after he closes the door, but before Steve can start fumbling with his clothes, he’s already leading them to bed. Steve’s thoughts turn to mush, helpless at the succession of long, deep kisses; he stumbles when the back of his knees touch the bed, falling down and pulling Tony with him.

Tony’s kisses taste even better with his laughter mixed in the middle.

They spend a while kissing, Tony’s hands everywhere on Steve’s body, over his clothes. Some of the touches don’t even feel sexual, as if Tony is just feeling his shape, his lines. Steve takes advantage of the moment to do the same, running his hands over Tony’s lean muscles, wishing he could memorize the feel of every inch of skin.

When Tony is inside him, he takes it slow—almost _unbearably_ slow. Steve loses track of his mouth, of what he says. He loses track of the words Tony whispers into his neck, of the endless flow of curses and praise.

Tony comes first, this time. He sinks over Steve’s body, boneless, and after a second he’s already whispering apologies, hand lowering to take hold of Steve’s cock. Steve lets him stroke him with those skillful fingers, but he’s stuck on the look in Tony’s face, on the expression he got when his orgasm hit. The way his eyes fluttered shut and his mouth opened. The feel of his body shaking.

As Tony’s hand takes him to his climax, Steve can’t help but think this—Tony laid bare, at his most open, lost in ecstasy—this isn’t his. This—this burning, stunning fire that’s in everything Tony does—it’s not his life. It’s at odds with him in ways so fundamental Steve can’t even begin to process the idea of having it.

So he doesn’t.

* * *

He wakes up to an alarm sound, jolting awake in a jump before realizing it’s just Tony’s phone.

“Shit,” Tony says, grabbing it. “I’m sorry.” He must check the time on his screen, because his eyes widen. “Uh, okay, maybe not so sorry. Hm, Cap? We’re twenty minutes away from losing the flight back to Earth.”

They scramble to get their things ready in time to go meet all the guests who are going in the returning pods (the Asgardians, Thor has told them, can party for weeks in a row, so the ship is going to take a while to return). They barely speak, too busy picking up the pieces of clothing they left scattered around the room.

When they finally get out of Tony’s cabin, the door closes behind them. They stare at each other, standing awkwardly.

“I should...” Steve stammers, still not knowing the proper way to end these encounters. “I need to go find Sam and Bucky.”

Tony nods, slowly. He clasps his hands behind his back. “No worries,” he says. Steve’s eyes dart to his lips - should they kiss? Would kissing be an acceptable way to say goodbye? “I need to find Rhodey, too.”

“Right,” Steve breathes. He wishes they could kiss. Not a deep, passionate kiss while fumbling with each other’s clothes - just… a kiss, light and chaste, with Tony smiling when they pulled apart. “We’re—we’re pretty late.”

Tony grins. “Yeah, we are.” He rocks a little on his heels, but makes no movement to touch Steve, which Steve guesses is probably what he should have expected. With their… arrangement, he finds, there’s not much reason for them to touch outside of the bedroom.

“See—Uh, see you later, then,” Steve pushes himself to say. Tony just stands there as Steve turns and leaves.

Steve wishes they could have kissed. Or hugged. Or touched in any way at all. Maybe it isn’t part of their arrangement, but still. He wishes.

* * *

 

_April_

 

“Knock off with the sour face,” Bucky lands a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a party. Look alive.”

“It’s your funeral,” Steve replies blankly. Bucky laughs. It’s a loud laugh, like the ones he used to give before the war. He pushes a beer in Steve’s hand.

“No reporters here to see your act, punk.” Bucky bites a piece of pizza he’s holding. His eyes quickly wander off Steve, finding Sam across the dance floor, and a flush colors his cheeks.

“Go dance with your husband,” Steve says, because he doesn’t want Bucky or Sam to waste time worrying about him tonight. It’s their night. “I’m fine, Mr. Wilson.”

The grin that takes over Bucky’s face is almost giddy. “Shuddup.” He pushes Steve’s shoulder. “I mean it, okay? If I catch you alone by the snacks table, I’m throwing you out.”

Steve forces himself to smile. “Okay.” He pats Bucky’s back, watching as he turns to find Sam.

The fake funeral is a good party, Steve considers. He wasn’t sure about the idea when Bucky first told him, but now, thinking about it, it makes sense. Bucky was tired of being watched, of being followed by undercover reporters secretly waiting for him to go on a murder spree. He wanted the chance to take control of his life once and for all, and the funeral had been his way of doing it. Steve might not fully understand, but seeing the happiness in his face now, as he finds Sam and hugs his waist from behind, it’s impossible for him to be against it.

Steve twirls the beer in his hand then drinks from it, walking around, trying not to stay in the same place for long. He tells himself he’s looking for something to do, but that’s a flatout lie. He knows exactly what - or _who_ \- he’s looking for.

Admittedly, he and Tony don’t have anything planned. They texted after Carol and Valkyrie’s wedding, but their conversations remained mundane and casual, never veering into personal ground. Still, when he had gotten Bucky’s official invitation, he couldn’t lie to himself: there was a rush, an immediate thrill of anticipation that had nothing to do with the idea of his two best friends getting hitched.

He finds Tony, finally, near the bar. He’s behind the counter, alone.

Steve frowns. Tony’s head is too low for his taste.

“Are you drinking?” he asks, without thinking, when he comes up to the bar. Tony raises his head and gives him a small, lifeless smile.

“Hello to you too, Cap.” He raises the glass he’s holding in a toasting motion. Steve notices the emptiness, clenching his jaw. “Oh, relax.” Tony waves him off. “It’s only my second one.”

“I thought you had stopped drinking.”

“So did I.” Tony finger-guns in his direction. His movements are just the slightest bit slower, but it’s a glaring difference from his usual precise franticness. Steve hates it. “But I thought—I mean, it seemed like a good idea.” At Steve’s gaze, he adds: “Oh, come on, Cap. It’s a funeral. Let me assure you: people drink at those.”

“It’s not a funeral,” Steve replies. This isn’t how he envisioned finding Tony here at all, and he doesn’t like anything about the situation, from Tony drinking to his weak smile to the strange, distant melancholy in his eyes. “It’s a wedding.”

Tony looks away. Then he runs a hand over his hair, sighing. “I know. I guess it’s just…” He gestures, encompassing the hall around them, the people partying in the living room. “Thinking about… a funeral here, of all places. All of us getting together to…” He shrugs exaggeratedly, though there’s nothing casual about his expression. “I don’t know – I’m talking nonsense, really, I’m probably already drunk.”

“No,” Steve says. “I get it.” And he really, really does. They’ve been too close to something like this to take it lightly. “Coming inside, having to play it up for the reporters, it was… very strange. I know it’s hard to not think about... things we don’t want to remember. But this is a happy night.” The corner of his lips twirls upwards in a small smile. “We need to be good guests and not forget about that.”

There’s a moment of silence. Tony’s eyes are wide, but there’s something warm about them, like a spark. His voice is soft when he speaks. “I missed you”.

Steve’s smile grows. “I missed you, too,” he says. Then, he leans over the counter and takes Tony’s drink out of his hand. “But this was your last glass.”

“Hey!” Tony protests. “Come on—if this is a party, what reason do I have to not drink?”

Steve tilts his head and eyes him over the counter. He hesitates just for a moment before deciding the risk is worth it. “I don’t like alcohol breath,” he says, finally, feeling only a slight flush of his cheeks as does it.

Tony stares at him for a moment in surprise, and then he breaks in a delighted, loud laugh.

* * *

 

This time, when they’re in Steve’s bedroom, Tony works him up with his tongue, getting Steve wet and aching and begging before sliding inside him, whispering about how wonderful he feels with every thrust.

After they’re done, he presses kisses all over Steve’s shoulders, caresses his hair, and maneuvers them until Steve’s got his head on his chest.

Steve rests his cheek against Tony’s warm skin, his face tinged by the blue glow of the reactor, and he wishes they could touch like this, outside of the bedroom. He wishes and wishes and wishes – as Tony drifts off to sleep, Steve, who hasn’t had a sip of alcohol, feels drunk on him and wishes he never had to sober up.

The room is dark, lightened only by the reactor’s glow, and the realization makes Steve’s heart feel so tight he can’t breathe.

* * *

 

The next morning, just like during the night, the only thing Steve can feel is Tony.

It’s as pathetic as it is inevitable. He blinks himself awake and he sees Tony right beside him, body curled up and eyes closed, and the rest of the room might as well just stop existing.

Tony’s chest expands as he breathes, and Steve wonders how long he has been in love with him. How long has he been looking the other way, pretending not to see what was obvious, so glaring it’s almost obscene.

Tony shifts in his sleep, and god, does Steve love him. He loves him so much it’s embarrassing, loves him so much the thought clenches his stomach, makes his eyes burn.

And Tony may not want this love, but Steve wants him to be loved. He wants him to be loved by someone who’s worthy, someone who doesn’t tense up at the slightest touch, someone who isn’t scared to make Tony love him back.

Someone who can dance with him.

Steve blinks rapidly, sitting up. Tony continues to sleep, oblivious.

Steve doesn’t even have the courage to touch him before standing up to leave.

* * *

 

_May_

 

“Thank you so much for doing this, man.” Quill shakes his hand with a bright grin. Steve, who is profoundly regretting the decision to be here, nods with a strained smile. “Captain America as my groomsman. Take that, Drax!” He turns, addressing the other men in the room. “Oh, and the rest of you guys, too. You aren’t bad either.”

Around them, Thor and Tony both seem to be regretting their choices as well. Steve doesn’t blame them – it was, to say the least, a surprise when Quill had sent them a video message asking to be his groomsmen. It was a larger surprise when he said he needed them to do it because, when asked, all the Guardians had chosen to be Gamora’s bridesmaids.

Now, though, as Quill is rambling about the situation, Steve thinks this is probably normal behaviour for them. “I mean, I was already predicting Mantis – which, okay, made sense. And I think Drax honestly believes it’s the most important role of the night or something. But I’m pretty sure Rocket was only trying to piss me off,” Quill keeps going, straightening his tie, oblivious to any tension around him.

Steve clenches his jaw and focuses on not staring at Tony. They haven’t spoken since Bucky’s wedding, not even through texts. They haven’t seen each other since Steve left in the morning without waiting for Tony to wake up.

A part of him misses Tony so much he’s eager to drink in every second of his presence, even by just staring at him from a distance. He knows better, though – he made this choice, and he knows why he did. If he had stayed in the room with Tony, he would never have been able to keep pretending, to not let Tony know he wanted to stay for good.

So he avoids looking Tony’s way, keeping his expression under control. When he feels tempted to do otherwise, he thinks of Tony at that first wedding – how he looked dancing with Nat, so comfortable and happy. Tony deserves someone who can make him look like that, and Steve can’t.

The door opens, interrupting Quill’s chatter, and Rocket’s head shows up to say there’s a problem with the sound system.

“You’re doing this _on purpose_ ,” Quill complains, but he leaves, jogging as if the wedding’s stereo is its most important element.

In his absence, an incredibly uncomfortable silence grows. Steve feels heat prickling his neck, and he can’t help but risk a glance at Tony, who’s staring straight at him. His eyes find Steve’s, bright and challenging.

Steve lasts about three seconds before he looks away.

“Uh,” Thor clears his throat. “I think the rabbit may need my assistance,” he says and, in the worlds’ least subtle retreat, goes straight to the door, leaving Steve and Tony standing there on their own.

Steve’s heart pounds in his chest. His hands close into fists at his sides. Being left alone with Tony is a painful reminder of all the other times they were alone, and of how those times won’t come back.

He opens his mouth, ready to spill some excuse to leave, but Tony beats him to it. “Just follow him, Cap,” he says, and the bitterness in his voice is like a slap on the face. “Come on, you want to leave, right? Do what you do best.”

Steve swallows. He knows he deserves this, but he wishes Tony would try to understand. It’s—it’s the best for both of them, in the end. Steve spared Tony the work of letting him down gently later, down the line, when the appeal of the sex wore off, or when Steve attempted to ask for more – or worse, he thinks with his stomach clenching, when Tony gave him more and Steve didn’t know what to do with it.

“Alright,” he says. It goes against his instincts – not to mention the entire dynamic of their relationship – to not argue with Tony, but what is the point now? Tony has a right to be angry – it’s not his fault Steve wants things he can’t have.

He turns to leave, but Tony’s hand stops him, holding his wrist tightly.

“Wait,” Tony says, and his voice sounds low, almost a whisper.

Steve turns. Tony immediately lets go off his wrist, as if he’s been burned. He stares at Steve with a pained expression, making a fist with his hand and pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

“Just… give me a moment, okay?” He draws in a deep breath before lowering his hand and continuing, “I know you don’t wanna listen to this. Hell, I don’t even want to say it. Ok, that’s a lie, I do. Well, I do and I don’t, it’s complicated, my therapist is really gonna have a field day with this, but—look, hear me out, okay? I just… I just want to understand.”

Steve frowns. “Understand what?”

Tony lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You. What else?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I have had less success in understanding anything else, including the space-time continuum.” He pinches his nose, then clasps his hands together. “Look. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but I’m not good at this… thing.”

Steve’s eyes find his, and Tony doesn’t look away. “What thing?”

“You know. The—the people-thing. The you-thing. Love. Call it however you want.” He shrugs, his voice going faster at every word. “The point is—I’m not good at it, at all. But trust me, I’ve been worse. And, lately, after everything that happened, I guess I… I thought I was getting kind of good at it? I mean, I thought I had at least gotten a grip on how it should go, and I was trying to… To make it easier, I guess. To… to do it right.”

“Tony,” Steve can’t help but take a step closer. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Tony actually snorts, spreading his arms. “I’m talking about the fact that I’m not a Sinatra guy, Cap. I don’t have anything against the guy, but I don’t listen to his music in hotel rooms for fun, and I sure as hell don’t _dance_ to it. But I thought—hey, Sinatra, that, that seems like something he’d enjoy. And then, the craziest thing happened: I was actually right! I mean, not that you slept with me because of Sinatra, you didn’t even dance with me for him, so this isn’t really—”

Steve can just stare, wordlessly, as Tony goes on. He seems to notice Steve’s expression, though, because he takes a sharp breath, visibly trying to reign himself in.

“Okay, so, anyway, Sinatra kind of worked. And I thought, I mean, I wanted to… I wanted to talk to you. So I thought I’d text you – keep it very casual, low pressure, nothing that could scare you off – and just… keep it going. Slowly.” His face is all flushed now, and he’s panting, breathless, as if the effort to speak is really big. “And, again, it kind of worked. But then it didn’t, and, look, I’m overextending myself over here, right? But I just felt that, that I really needed to say it, all at once, so everything is on the open. All the cards on the table, that sort of thing.”

He pauses another time, and Steve sees a spark of fear in those brown eyes. But it’s Tony he’s talking to – and he wouldn’t be Tony if his bravery didn’t astonish Steve to the core.

“I wanted to say that… That first night? I—I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining by any means, but… But I would have been happy to just dance with you. Dance, and talk, I don’t know. It would have made my night.” His hand rubs the back of his neck, and Steve feels a wave of affection so strong, his knees feel weak. “Anyway. I really feel, uhh, in short, to recap it slightly, in a clearer version, I think I love you.”

He clasps his hands together again, as if he’s not holding Steve’s heart in them.

“Anyway, yeah, that’s it. I—that’s what I wanted to say.” He nods multiple times, a little more than frantically. “Thanks for listening.”

And, before Steve can answer, he leaves with fast strides.

* * *

 

The wedding is terrible.

Well, to be fair, the ceremony is quite lovely. Gamora and Quill’s vows are simple but beautiful, Groot as a flower girl is a surprisingly sweet moment, and the music from the 60s playing in the background during the entire thing is a nice touch.

But it’s so _long_. It’s… unbearably, excruciatingly long, and Steve misses most of it staring at the back of Tony’s head, counting the seconds until he can step out of his spot and go to him.

After Peter and Gamora kiss, they’re pushed with everyone else for pictures, and from there it’s impossible to find a moment to speak with Tony alone, since they’re always surrounded by people. Steve doesn’t get a chance to do that until the reception.

He finds Tony by himself, in an emptier part of the hall. He standing with his hands in his pockets, staring firmly at anything but Steve, and Steve wants to touch him so badly.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, as soon as he comes closer. Tony looks up at him, eyes wide.

“Sorry for what?”

“For everything. For leaving. For… for not being honest with you.” Steve shifts. His face heats. This isn’t easy, even now that he knows Tony’s feelings. He isn’t sure it will ever be. He just knows he desperately wants to do it anyway. “I thought… I never thought you’d want anything more, and, even if you did, you… You could do so much better than me.”

“That sentence is so absurd I think if I spend too long thinking about it, I might dissociate,” Tony says, but he doesn’t move away when Steve takes a closer step. He inhales sharply. “Do you, huh… What are you—”

“Dance with me,” Steve says. His voice isn’t as firm as he’d like, coming out softer than he means to, but he extends his hand.

Tony’s eyes snap to his hand and back. “Thought you said you’d step on my feet.”

Steve takes a sharp breath. It shouldn’t feel big, to do something like this, but... it does. It feels as important as the times Steve has faced threats against the world, and even a little scarier.

But he wants. He wants Tony, and he wants Tony so much it hurts, as if the intensity could burn a hole in his chest. And he wants all of this – the burn, the nerves, the fears. And if Tony wants it too, if Tony wants him _back_ … Steve needs to be as brave as him.

“It’s a risk you’re gonna have to be willing to take, I’m afraid,” he says. He wishes his hand wouldn’t shake, but it does.

There’s a moment, a split second in which Tony doesn’t react, and Steve is so afraid he thinks he won’t make it through this, then he feels the warm weight of Tony’s hand holding his.

“Well, you know me.” Tony sounds breathless, the corners of his lips quirking up as he speaks. “I’m always up for a risk.”

Steve grins. They’re close enough to the dance floor that they don’t need to walk much. The song playing isn’t exactly slow, but it’s far from a fast one either. As the singer goes on about going through a silly phase, Steve stops in front of Tony awkwardly, his heart beating so fast it feels like his chest is going to explode, and lands his hands on Tony’s hips.

“Easy,” Tony whispers, taking his hands to Steve’s shoulders, and starting a small, subtle sway. “Follow my lead.”

Steve does. Tony makes all his moves deliberate, slow, guiding him through every single one.

They start out swaying. Steve is tense, his posture stiff, and for a second he wonders if this was a terrible idea.

But then the moment passes, and the world doesn’t end. Tony is so close, Steve can feel the warmth of his body. He breathes deeply, enjoying the smell of Tony’s cologne.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Tony whispers in his ear. And it does. It feels wonderful.

They stay in their subtle sway, even when the song changes. After a while, Tony helps him take a few simple steps. He takes his hand to Steve’s chest and helps him to move within the rhythm; then he holds Steve’s hand, takes it over his head and helps Steve spin him and pull him back in. And he grins brightly the entire time.

They go through one, two, three songs. It’s addictive. Steve can’t get enough of the way Tony is looking at him, of the wonder in his eyes.

“Everybody is staring at us, I hope you know that,” Tony whispers, after a while. Steve doesn’t really care – he leans forward, his forehead almost touching Tony, as they spin. “For someone who shuddered at the thought of moving to a beat, you seem to be doing alright, Travolta.”

“I could do this all day,” Steve says, eyes fluttering closed, focusing on the feel of Tony’s body moving close to his. His cheeks hurt from smiling. “You know,” he adds, frowning a little, when the first song from earlier comes up again, the singer boasting about not being in love. “I couldn’t have picked a song more inappropriate if I tried.”

Tony freezes, for a moment. His eyes search Steve’s, hands clinging to his suit.

“You—What?” He blinks, a slow, silly grin blooming in his lips. “Is _this_ how you choose to—Well, fuck you, Steve Rogers,” he says it through the most beautiful smile in world. “Can I kiss you?”

“I think our lives are gonna be a lot easier,” Steve pulls Tony closer, feeling his chest against his. “If from now on you just assume the answer to this question is always ‘yes’.”

“Done,” Tony says, covering Steve’s grin with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos make me super happy. You can also reblog the fic [here](https://elcorhamletlive.tumblr.com/post/184402364085/youll-wait-a-long-time-nanasekei-marvel).


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